


Collide

by ariel2me



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, when Hoster Tully asked her to come to Riverrun and meet his heir, she lit candles to the Maid in thanks, but Prince Doran had declined the invitation. (A Feast for Crows)</p><p>AU in which Viserys Targaryen died earlier than he did in the books, and Doran Martell agreed to the marriage between Arianne and Edmure Tully.</p><p>Chapter 4: Doran and Mellario revisit old arguments; the Tully wedding party finally arrive at Sunspear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yup, I know that Viserys dying earlier is such an oh-so-convenient plot device ; ) But I’ve been meaning to write Arianne/Edmure marriage AU for a while now, and this is the only way I could think of to make the marriage happen. For the purpose of this fic, the Arianne/Edmure wedding took place a year before the start of A Game of Thrones.

“How much longer?” Edmure fretted, not for the first time. “How far are we to Sunspear?”

Brynden Tully threw his nephew a sharp glance. “Speak louder, why don’t you? Why not? Let’s show these Dornishmen how desperate you are to wed their princess.”

Hoster Tully was riding ahead of them, in the company of Lord Yronwood and his men, the Dornish honor guards that greeted the Tully wedding party at the Boneway, and were now escorting them to Sunspear. One of the men with Anders Yronwood was Quentyn Martell, Princess Arianne’s own brother, fostered with the Yronwoods since he was a young boy. To his uncle’s consternation, Edmure did not even try to hide his surprise upon being introduced to young Quentyn. “You look nothing like your sister,” Edmure had blurted out.

 _Not as good-looking or as charming as your sister_ , was what Edmure was saying, Brynden knew. Luckily, Quentyn Martell did not seem to take offense. “You have seen my sister recently, Ser Edmure? I envy your good fortune. I myself have not seen Arianne since my father’s nameday celebration last year.”

Edmure was sulking. A grown man and he still sulked like a little boy. But never in his father’s presence. Edmure saved his sulking for his sisters and his uncle, not for the father he had been trying to impress since practically the day he was born. “Who is desperate?” Edmure whispered furiously to his uncle. “I am _not_ desperate. I am eager, excited, filled with joy and anticipation. You have been too long up the lonely mountain of the Vale to remember those things, Uncle.”

“She must have made a great impression on you, on that one visit to Riverrun,” said the Blackfish.

“We made a great impression on each other,” Edmure said proudly. “Lord Tyrell wanted Princess Arianne too, you know. For his heir Willas. And Arianne picked me. _Me_. Not Willas Tyrell.”

 _Her father picked the heir to Riverrun, you mean._ But Brynden did not have the heart to wipe out that look of joy, pride and satisfaction on Edmure’s face. “I suppose she is very beautiful?” He asked instead.

Edmure shrugged as if to say – _such things do not concern me_. His uncle knew better. Edmure’s tone of voice when describing Arianne Martell’s appearance in great detail betrayed his true feelings on the matter.

“I wonder what she is doing at this very moment?” Edmure asked, when he had finished extolling Arianne’s virtues to his uncle.

“Waiting for you with eagerness, joy and anticipation, no doubt,” the Blackfish replied dryly.  

__________________

At that moment, Arianne was reflecting on the day that changed everything – the day her uncle Oberyn came home to Sunspear after traveling who knows where, his face dark as thunder, his mouth curled into a grimace. Oberyn stayed cloistered with Arianne’s father in his solar for half a day, with everyone else being kept out of the room, even Areo Hotah, Doran Martell’s shadow and captain of the guards.

Dying as she was to know what was being discussed between her father and her uncle, Arianne would have never asked her father, and her uncle refused to divulge anything.

“I have kept your share of secrets from your father, Arianne. There are secrets I must keep for my brother’s sake as well,” Oberyn told his niece, in a tone that told Arianne that arguing, or even pleading and wheedling, was pointless. That her uncle loved her was not something Arianne ever doubted, but she also knew her uncle was completely loyal to his brother.

Her father summoned Arianne to his solar that night. For a brief, shameful moment, Arianne wondered if something had happened to Quentyn, if he had been hurt in some way. Maybe even in a way that would make it impossible for him to be the next Prince of Dorne. She pushed the thought aside, as quickly as it came to her.

 _I do not wish any harm to come to Quentyn. How could I? I love him. He is my brother, just like Trystane is my brother,_ Arianne insisted to herself.

Perhaps Doran Martell meant to tell his daughter, “I will not steal your birthright, Arianne. You will rule Dorne after I am gone, as is your right.” But of course he would not say that, since he had never admitted his desire to pass over his oldest child. If Arianne had not come across that letter he was writing to Quentyn when she was fourteen, she would still be living in ignorance, wrongly believing that her father loved her, that her father had faith in her ability to rule.

_One day you will sit where I sit, and rule all of Dorne, Quentyn._

She had cried herself to sleep for days, haunted by her father’s words. But she had not cried in front of her father, not once, since the day she read that letter. Her tears were not for her father, and neither was her grief or her sorrow.

Her father looked troubled. When he finally spoke, he spoke so abruptly that Arianne was not certain she had heard him correctly at first. “Which one do you want as your husband, Arianne? The heir to Highgarden, or the heir to Riverrun? You tried to sneak to Highgarden to meet Willas Tyrell, but you only lit candles for Edmure Tully. Does that mean Willas Tyrell is higher in your favor?”

Her uncle Oberyn had caught her trying to sneak to Highgarden, and brought her back to Sunspear to face her father. But how had her father known about the candles? Arianne glanced sharply at Areo Hotah. _How could you, Hotah? You used to bounce me on your knees when I was a little girl. You used to call me your little princess. How could you betray me to my father?_

But just like her uncle, Areo Hotah’s primary loyalty was to her father, not to Arianne herself. Arianne knew that very well indeed.

“It was not Hotah who told me,” Doran Martell said, as if he knew what suspicion was swirling in Arianne’s mind. “I am the Prince of Dorne. Men and women seek my favor all day long. They will not hesitate to betray even you. Remember that, Arianne.”

Arianne ignored her father’s admonition. “Willas Tyrell or Edmure Tully. Well, well, am I to wed one of them now? Surely neither is old enough to make a suitable husband for me, Father. Lord Frey has remarried, true, but last I heard, Lord Estermont is still living and unmarried. Willas Tyrell and Edmure Tully are surely much too young for me, compared to those men you used to favor as my match.”

Doran sighed, looking pained, whether from his gout-stricken legs, or because of his daughter’s impertinence, Arianne could not tell. “If you would rather be wed to Lord Estermont, I can write to him this very moment,” he told Arianne.

Areo Hotah was staring at Arianne intently, shaking his head slightly. She knew that look. _Don’t be a proud fool, my little princess,_ Hotah was warning her.

House Tyrell and House Tully would both be powerful allies for Arianne to have; House Estermont of Greenstone, not so. And she would need powerful allies on her side to thwart her father’s plan to steal her birthright.

It also helped that Edmure Tully was not an old man with one foot in the grave. Even Edmure’s father Hoster Tully was younger than most of the men Doran Martell had previously suggested as Arianne’s husband. She supposed she was lucky that the widowed Lord Tully had harbored no intention to wed her himself, or her father might have accepted _that_ proposal.

Arianne lowered her gaze and pretended to sound contrite. “I will wed whoever you wish, Father, be it Willas Tyrell or Edmure Tully.”

“Willas Tyrell is an admirable young man by all accounts, but I would prefer a husband for you that can fight and lead men in battle, Arianne. That might prove to be of the utmost importance soon. Very soon, perhaps.”

“Then I will wed Edmure Tully, Father,” Arianne acquiesced.

The letter to Hoster Tully was quickly written, another invitation was quickly extended by Lord Tully for Arianne to visit Riverrun, and before she knew it, she was departing for Riverrun in the company of her uncle Oberyn. Edmure showed Arianne the castle, while Oberyn negotiated the betrothal and the marriage contract on his brother’s behalf with Hoster Tully.

Arianne’s first impression of Edmure Tully, with his red hair and his red beard, was that he looked like a figure from the picture books her mother used to read to her as a child. He was courteous and eager to please, perhaps too eager at times, but Arianne took that as a good sign, for her own purpose at least. She would need a husband who was eager to please her, in more ways than one.

____________________

Arianne’s figure was still dancing and flickering in Edmure’s mind. Her visit to Riverrun had been short, much too short for Edmure’s liking, but everything about her was still etched in his memory. Her eyes, her lips, the touch of her hand, the feel of her hair, the -

Was it such a bad thing to want a beautiful wife? One who was pleasing to look at, pleasing to spend time with. One who laughed at his jokes, and made him laugh in return. One who spoke enthusiastically and volubly about her numerous cousins and their many mishaps and adventures, and listened attentively to tales of Edmure’s own exploits.

Edmure spoke to his uncle. “It is a good match. She will be Princess of Dorne, and I will be –“

“You will be her prince consort, and that is all. You will not be ruling Dorne. Never forget that, Edmure. The Dornish are a prickly and proud bunch. They are quite used to be ruled by a woman. Their law of inheritance does not take into account whether the first child is male or female. What they will _not_ accept is an outsider trying to rule them through his wife.”

Edmure was offended. “Do you take me for a greedy, craven suitor, Uncle? I have no wish to rule Dorne at all. Riverrun is enough for me.”

Mace Tyrell, ambitious, striving Mace Tyrell would have wanted his son to rule Dorne. Perhaps that was why Arianne had chosen Edmure as her husband, and not Willas Tyrell.

For some reason, that thought made Edmure sad. And slightly disappointed. Was his lack of ambition to rule Dorne his only advantage over Willas Tyrell in Arianne’s eyes? Not looks, wit or temperament? Not charm, gallantry or bravery?

When she came to Riverrun, she told him about lighting candles to thank the gods when Hoster Tully first wrote to invite her to Riverrun to meet Edmure. She told him how disappointed she was when her father did not consent to accept the invitation. Edmure had blushed. “I thought perhaps it was you, Princess Arianne, who did not wish to come. Perhaps you were hoping for a better match than myself. I had heard that Lord Tyrell …”

Arianne had touched his arm, and smiled beguilingly. “Call me Arianne, please. Lord Tyrell _did_ invite me to Highgarden to meet his son Willas. But I did not go. And now here I am, at Riverrun.

“Here you are, Arianne.”

__________________

She was still waiting for her mother to arrive. Arianne had written to Mellario twice to confirm that she would be attending the wedding. The situation was made the more awkward by the presence of Lady Stark, Edmure’s oldest sister, who had been asking about Arianne’s mother. It was common knowledge in Dorne that the Prince of Dorne was living separately from his wife. But that was not common knowledge in other parts of the Seven Kingdoms.

Arianne wondered how her mother and father would react upon seeing one another. It had been years since her mother had been back in Dorne. Arianne and her brothers had been to Norvos a few times to visit her since she left, but Doran Martell had never gone to visit his wife. “She knows that she will always have a home here, if she wishes to come back. Why should I go to her?”

 _Because she will not come to you, and you will not go to her, and nothing will ever be resolved,_ Arianne thought.

Lady Stark, her husband and three of their children had arrived in Sunspear the day before. She was relieved to make good time from Winterfell, after worrying that they might arrive too late for the wedding. “Perhaps too good a time,” Lady Stark continued. “I’m afraid we will be a nuisance to you and your lord father, Princess Arianne. Edmure, my lord father and the rest of the wedding party have not yet arrived, and the wedding is still days away.”

“It is not be a bother at all,” Arianne had assured Catelyn Stark. “My brother Trystane will be glad for the company of your children.” And that had indeed proven to be the case. Trystane was glad to spend his time practicing his sword-fighting skill with the oldest Stark boy, and playing cyvasse with the two Stark daughters. The older daughter was a pretty maid called Sansa, who looked as innocent and as demure as Tyene, but Arianne suspected Sansa really _was_ innocent and demure, and naïve besides. The younger Stark girl, Arya, had a fierce look to her that brought Obara to mind.

Arianne was determined to make a good impression on Catelyn Stark. She knew from the bits and pieces Edmure had told her about his childhood - mostly in his letters, which were more articulate than his speech - that Edmure thought of Catelyn more like a mother than a sister. And it would do her good to ally herself with Lady Stark and her husband, the Lord of Winterfell. She would have powerful allies on her side, should her father decide to proceed with his plan to disinherit her in favor of Quentyn.

But it was hard to know what Lady Stark was thinking. She was unfailingly courteous, a smile often gracing her face, but she was also very, very reserved. Was she pleased with the thought of her brother marrying Arianne Martell? Would she have wished for a different bride for Edmure? Arianne could not tell from Catelyn’s words or expression. This was not a woman who revealed much of herself to others, and certainly not to Arianne.

It brought to mind Mellario’s stories about the early days of her marriage. Doran’s mother had not been pleased that her son had chosen his own bride, had chosen his own wife during his travel in the Free Cities for no stronger reason than love, when alliances could have been made with other Great Houses of Westeros. Her reception of Mellario had been chilly at first, thinking her an opportunist, or perhaps even a fortune hunter. Mellario had worked hard to win her heart, to convince the Princess of Dorne that she truly loved her son, yes, but more importantly, that she would make a good wife and consort to Doran Martell.

Pity that by the time Mellario had won over the heart of Doran’s mother, her relations with her husband had already started to deteriorate, had already begun its long descent into irreconcilable differences.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“So you decided to come to the wedding after all,” Oberyn said, greeting his former squire Daemon Sand.

Daemon shrugged. “The Knight of Lemonwood is here. And so is his brother. I suppose the three of us could form an honor guard of sort. Princess Arianne’s rejected suitors, lining up to watch her wed and bed another man.”

There would have been more than just the three, Oberyn thought. A lot more. Arianne had never lacked for suitors.

“Well, to be fair, Ser Deziel and Andrey Dalt never actually asked my brother for Arianne’s hand in marriage.”

“No, they did not. Why do you suppose that is? Because they knew their place too well, or because I did not know mine? The only bastard in the bunch, and I was the only one foolish enough to go to Prince Doran.”

The Bastard of Godsgrace had been a proud, determined boy when he served as Oberyn’s squire. Age and a knighthood had not changed that in the least.

“You were the only one bold enough to go to my brother. And he did not reject your suit because you are a bastard.”

“I’m sure he did not,” Daemon replied, but in a tone of voice that made it clear that he did not believe Oberyn’s assertion.

_Arianne was promised. Promised for the sake of justice. And vengeance. Doran would have rejected your suit even if you had been the trueborn son of the richest lord in Westeros._

This he could not tell Daemon. Only three people had known about the secret betrothal, and it would remain that way. It was a moot point in any case, with the sudden and unexpected death of Viserys Targaryen.

Viserys had died falling off a horse. What an absurd way to die, Oberyn thought. Not even in the heat of battle.

There was a sister. Daenerys. The last of the Targaryen. Trystane was too young, but Quentyn –

Daemon Sand spoke, interrupting Oberyn’s recollection. “What is this Edmure Tully like?”

“Like? Do you mean his looks? Fair, I suppose. He has the Tully look. Red hair, red beard.”

A young man desperate to please his father, Oberyn thought. No, desperate to prove himself worthy to his father. Or were those two actually one and the same? Oberyn did not know, never being the sort of man desperate to please anyone in his life.  

_________________

She saw him walking out of her uncle’s bedchamber, taller and bulkier than she remembered. He had grown a beard since the last time she saw him, close-cropped, following the line of his strong jaw. Arianne searched for the sign of his dimples, but he was looking stern and serious, unsmiling, and the dimples did not make an appearance.

She had always loved his smile. And she missed seeing his dimples.

“Ser Daemon,” Arianne greeted the man who had taken her maidenhead as if greeting a stranger. In truth, things had never been the same between them since the day her father rejected Daemon’s request for her hand in marriage.

_It was my father’s decision, not mine. You have no right to blame me._

He never said he blamed her, of course. But he drew away from her nonetheless. “If I am not worthy to be your husband, why should I be worthy to be your companion?” He had asked her, when Arianne questioned his ever growing distance from her.

“Drey and I are still close,” Arianne replied.

“It is not the same. Ser Andrey is content to love you from afar.”

Well, not exactly from afar. Drey would have been her first man, shared with her cousin Tyene, as they had shared many things over the years, if he had not gotten too excited and came too quickly the moment Tyene’s fingers did their work. Arianne smiled at the memory, but Daemon’s frowning face brought her back to her present predicament.

“We can still ride together. And share a bed,” Arianne said, smiling seductively.

“The only bed I want to share with you is our marital bed,” Daemon had replied at the time, unsmiling.

He was suddenly smiling now, showing his dimples to his advantage. “I must congratulate you on your wedding, Princess Arianne,” he said, his voice cold and aloof, like a stranger.

 _Princess Arianne_. Not Arianne. Or ‘ _my princess’_ , as he used to call her of old.

“Thank you,” Arianne replied. “I am very much looking forward to my wedding.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, looking quizzical. “Are you? Looking forward to your wedding?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? Edmure Tully is a very good match.” Arianne wished she had not sounded so defensive.  

“Well, I suppose he is a vast improvement over Lord Frey or Lord Estermont. But he does not strike me to be your type at all.”

It was Arianne’s turn to look baffled. “My type? And what exactly is my type, Ser Daemon?”

“Dark, dangerous and unpredictable. Someone like Gerold Dayne, perhaps. I have heard rumors of your growing closeness to him. Edmure Tully sounds more like a tame cat than a fierce tiger. Not so enticing, perhaps, compared to Ser Gerold?”

Arianne did not wish to be reminded of Gerold Dayne. _Darkstar_. Her dark and dangerous knight. There was nothing there. It was a brief infatuation, and she was over it. Completely, and resolutely, over it.

She _was!_

“A tame, domesticated cat would make a better husband than a fierce tiger forever roaming the wild,” Arianne said. Not that Edmure Tully was _precisely_ that. Arianne was not naïve; she had heard tales of his whoring and wenching. She saw nothing wrong with that. He was an unmarried man looking for a bit of pleasure. Arianne has had her shares of pleasures too.

Her uncle’s advice rang in her ears. “ _If you would wed, wed,”_ the Red Viper had told his own daughters. “ _If not, take your pleasure where you find it. There’s little enough of it in this world. Choose well, though_.” Pleasures aside, unlike the Sand Snakes, however, Arianne must also wed, and she must wed well. She had always known that. Edmure Tully would do very well indeed.

Daemon Sand was not letting her escape from his gaze. She had forgotten how blue his eyes were. “A tame cat for _you_ , Arianne? I find that hard to imagine,” he said, sounding like a tiger ready to pounce on her.

 _Damn him_! Damn the man to seven hells for calling her name in _that_ way. The way he used to when they had shared a bed, and much, much more.

“You will not have to imagine anything, ser. You can see me with your own eyes taking my marriage vows three days from now,” Arianne replied brusquely, taking her leave from the Bastard of Godgrace without giving him another glance.

_________________

They stopped to rest at an inn just outside the city. Sunspear was beckoning, ever so close, but Hoster Tully looked as if he could not ride even another step.

Back when they were met by the Dornish honor guards at the Boneway, Lord Yronwood had taken one look at Hoster’s pale and wan countenance, and offered a litter to take him the rest of the way to Sunspear.

“Prince Doran always travels in a litter,” Edmure told his father, trying to induce him to accept the offer. “A carved litter with silk hangings and embroidered suns on the drapes. It is quite a magnificent sight, Arianne told me.”

“Doran Martell has been ill with gout for years. I am perfectly well!” Hoster had protested, declining the offer of a litter with alacrity.

He was not, in fact, perfectly well. The pain in his stomach was growing worse by the day. Brynden Tully had not seen his brother in years, and the sight of Hoster when he arrived in Riverrun had been a great shock. His brother had grown portly in his later years, and that was how Brynden still remembered him. But the man standing in front of him was all skins and bones, a pale imitation of the fiercely proud and stubborn brother he remembered.

“So you have decided to come home after all,” Hoster said, looking at Brynden with suspicion shining from his eyes. Well, still the same proud and stubborn man, perhaps, even if his flesh seemed to have melted away.

“I came to escort Edmure to Sunspear for his wedding,” Brynden replied. Riverrun had not been his home for a long time, not since the day he left to escort Lysa to her husband’s home.

“Wedding!” Hoster snorted. “My brother, who ran away from home to avoid marrying a perfectly respectable woman from a perfectly respectable House.”

“Ran away? I did no such thing,” Brynden replied with accentuated dignity. “I left to serve my niece’s husband as his Knight of the Gate. A perfectly honorable and dutiful thing to do, brother.”

Hoster’s eyes were searching and roaming beyond his brother. “Lysa … is she … did she come with you?” He asked, sounding hopeful.

Brynden shook his head. He had dreaded this moment. “Lysa –“

“I suppose it’s the boy,” Hoster interrupted. “She couldn’t leave her son when he is not well.”

Better to let him believe _that_ , Brynden supposed, than to break Hoster’s heart with the truth. He felt weary and tired to the bone, all of a sudden. How many times had he done the exact same thing in the past? Acting as a buffer between Hoster and his children, being the one to absorb the blows.

He had no cause for complaint, in truth. He had done it willingly, even eagerly at times. Hoster had once accused Brynden of stealing his children’s confidences, during one of their many arguments when Brynden was still at Riverrun.

“It’s easy enough for you to play the kindly uncle, the understanding one. They are not _your_ children. You’re not the one staying awake night after night worrying about their future,” Hoster had said.

Had there been some truth to that? Would he have been different with his own children?

There was no point obsessing about that, Brynden decided. There would never be any children of his own for the Blackfish.

“He wants you, Uncle,” Edmure said, after settling in his father in the best room available at the modest inn.

“See to it that Edmure does not make a fool of himself in front of the Martells,” Hoster said, when Brynden entered the room. “He would mind too much, if I am the one to admonish him. He can take your criticism more readily.”

Brynden snickered. “He will quarrel with me, telling me how wrong and unfair I am, you mean.”

“Yes, yes, but he will not take your words too much to heart, the way he does with me.”

Brynden sat down on the chair next to Hoster’s bed. “Edmure wants to make you proud,” he said, after a while.

Hoster looked perplexed. “He is my son. Of course I am proud of him.”

“He is afraid of disappointing his father,” Brynden continued, before realizing that he was speaking to a sleeping man.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“This dress looks very much like something Tyene would wear,” Ellaria said, fingering the sleeves of Myrish lace on Arianne’s wedding dress.

“Demureness and innocence personified. All the better to hide the dangerous viper coiled inside,” Arianne replied, laughing. Ellaria grinned.

Mellario looked surprised. “That is an unkind thing to say about your sweet cousin.”

Her mother had been gone from Dorne for a long time; Arianne had to keep reminding herself of that fact. “It’s a compliment. Tyene would see it as such, trust me.”

A look of discomfort flitted across Mellario’s face. “Well, I’m sure you know best, Arianne. I have not seen Tyene for a long time after all,” she said, in a voice that was too forcefully cheerful, smiling a smile that was too bright to be true.

 _It was not meant as a rebuke, Mother_ , Arianne knew she should say. _I am not trying to make you feel guilty for being away._ But the words would not come. Mellario busied herself inspecting the embroidered sun-and-spear on Arianne’s maiden cloak, while Arianne stared at her wedding dress - the one she had carefully chosen with her mother in mind - and suddenly the dress seemed like a bright, shining lie. What had she wanted to prove with that dress? _I am still your sweet little girl, Mother._

Who was she trying to fool after all? Her mother, or herself?

Ellaria was the one to break the awkward silence enveloping them, with her customary tact. “Tyene and Arianne have their little jokes and their little secrets. As do my girls, even Dorea and Loreza. Only six and four, and already they whisper secrets to each other that I am not allowed to know, or even ask. It makes me feel so very old sometimes.”

Mellario turned her attention to Ellaria. “It can’t have been easy for you, with your own four girls, and Oberyn’s older daughters besides.”

“Obara, Nym, Tyene and Sarella are grown now, and they would not appreciate me trying to play mother anyhow. They think of me more like an older sister, perhaps. Or an annoying aunt,” Ellaria said, with a self-deprecating laugh.

“But you are here, and their mothers are not,” Mellario said, her tone measured.

Ellaria quickly changed the topic of conversation to a few last minute details about the wedding feast, and they spoke of wine, dessert course and music for a while. When Ellaria finally took her leave, Arianne escorted her to the door and whispered, “Thank you.”

“It is not easy for your mother, being back,” Ellaria whispered in return. “Remember that.”

Her mother was still sitting on Arianne’s bed, carefully folding the maiden cloak, avoiding Arianne’s eyes.

How had her mother been reduced to this state of uncertainty? Was it Dorne? Was it being back at Dorne that had done this to Mellario? Arianne remembered the woman she saw during her visits to Norvos – proud, defiant and full of life, not this hesitant, wary woman sitting on Arianne’s bed.

“My maid can do that later,” Arianne said, sounding impatient.

“It’s easy enough for me to do it,” Mellario replied, continuing to fold. “There. It’s done already,” she said, finally looking up to catch Arianne’s gaze.

“You begged Father to let you take Trystane with you when you left,” Arianne blurted out.

 _Oh._ She had said it out loud, Arianne realized, as she watched blood draining from her mother’s face. She had said it out loud for the first time. She had never told anyone this, not even Tyene.

_No, I take it back! Don’t tell me anything, Mother. I don’t want to know._

Her mother’s voice was unsteady. “Quentyn was already with the Yronwoods. Your father was convinced there would be a war if … if …”

_What about me, Mother? You didn’t ask for me._

“You were fifteen when I left,” Mellario continued.

Arianne was fourteen when she found her father’s letter to Quentyn.

“You are your father’s heir. You will rule Dorne after him. How could I take you away from Dorne, when you were almost a woman grown, when you must be here to learn, to prepare?” Mellario’s voice broke. “Every time you come to Norvos to visit, I have to steel myself not to say – _stay. Don’t leave._ I must have said that a thousand times in my head.”

 _He never wanted me to rule Dorne after him. Quentyn. Father wants only Quentyn_ , Arianne almost shouted. But she didn’t. She didn’t, because she knew that her mother knowing that would destroy any chance of reconciliation between Doran and Mellario. Mellario would never forgive her husband that.

And there was no point in telling her mother, in any case. It had been years since Doran Martell had listened to his wife about anything. Her mother could no more change Doran’s mind about anything than Arianne could.

Arianne was five, watching her parents dancing under the moonlight, her mother’s belly already swollen with Quentyn. “It’s another girl. A sister for Arianne,” her father said. “Ariella, after my mother. Do you like that name?”

“For the next one, sure. But this one is a boy. I’m sure of it,”Mellario had replied.

If Quentyn had been born a girl, he would not have been sent to the Yronwoods to pay a blood debt incurred long ago.

If Quentyn had been born a girl, maybe Mellario would still be living in Dorne with her husband and her children.

If Quentyn had been born a girl, maybe Doran Martell would not have been so eager to disinherit Arianne. 

If Quentyn had been born a girl -

“Are you fond of him, this Edmure Tully?” Her mother’s voice startled Arianne from her contemplation of all the if’s.

“I’ve only met him once, Mother,” Arianne replied.

“But he is not repulsive to you in any way?”

Repulsive? Compared to the doddering, slobbering, wrinkled old men her father had wanted Arianne to wed, Edmure Tully was a vast improvement. “No, not at all,” Arianne replied.

“And there isn’t anyone you would rather wed instead? What about that boy you were so close to? Andrey, is that his name?”

“We’re still close. Drey is a friend, like Garin and Sylva are my friends. I never had any thought to wed him.”

“What about the other one? The one who went to your father to ask for your hand?”

“That was a long time ago, Mother.”

And Daemon Sand seemed to have lost all interest in Arianne, in any case. He had been at great pains to emphasize that, when she met him coming out of her uncle’s bedchamber this morning.

“I need to know, Arianne. Is your father forcing you to marry this Tully heir?” Mellario asked, her brows furrowed.  

“No, Mother, he did not lock me in the tower and deny me food and drink until I agree to marry Edmure Tully,”Arianne said.

The darkness did not recede from Mellario’s expression. “There are other ways. Other ways to make people do things against their will. Ways that might not seem cruel to others watching, but can be just as oppressive.”

“My father is not a monstrous ogre,” Arianne instinctively recoiled. She had been angry with her father – still was, for that matter – but he was still her father, for all that.

“No, he’s not an ogre. I know that. He means well, your father. Doran always means well. That is part of the problem,” Mellario said, before seemingly thinking better of it. “I’m sorry, Arianne, that was ill-done. When we parted, your father and I agreed that we would never speak ill of one another in front of the children.”

“He has kept that promise,” Arianne said. _Your mother loves you very much_ , Doran had always been at pain to remind his children.

“And I will keep mine. Only, I needed to be sure that you are not being forced into this marriage.”

Mellario had married for love. She probably thought the idea of an arranged marriage equally as horrifying as the Westerosi’ custom of fostering children and taking them away from their family at a young age.

“I’m not being forced,” Arianne said. “I do want to marry Edmure Tully.” She paused, giving her mother a smile. “I suppose your own mother did not have to ask you that question before your own wedding.”

Mellario took her time replying, before finally saying, “No, my mother was too busy trying to tell me not to look too deliriously happy and self-satisfied. ‘ _It’s an indecent look for a bride to have on her wedding day_ ,’ my mother said. ‘ _People might accuse you of crowing triumphantly about bagging a prince._ ’ She was wrong, though, my mother. I didn’t care that your father was a prince. I only cared that we would be together.”

“You were in love.”

“We both were.”

“So what happened?”

“Ask your father.” There was a long pause, before Mellario continued. “There is really nothing I can say about marriage that will be of any help to you. Mine has been such a spectacular failure, you’d be better off asking for advice from a never-married septa, or from one of the Silent Sisters.”

“Mother –“

“There _is_ one thing, I suppose. Something you could learn from my mistake. You should not put too much faith in your ability to change another person, or even to change yourself, Arianne.”

“I don’t understand, Mother.”

“Your father was secretive, even then, back when we were newly married. _He is shy, and used to keeping his own counsel_ , I told myself. _I can change that. I will make him see that there is nothing that he cannot share with me, no burden we cannot carry together._ Later, I told myself that it is his nature, that I could learn to live with that. If I could not change him, then I could change myself.“

“It didn’t work?”

Her mother’s slight shake of the head seemed to Arianne at that moment to be the saddest thing in the world.

 

___________________

 

Edmure’s head was pounding mercilessly. It had been a grave mistake trying to match the Bastard of Godsgrace goblet for goblet, Edmure belatedly admitted. It was not ale they had been drinking, or sweet wine from the Reach, but strong Dornish wine that burned his tongue, his throat, and now his stomach.

“Don’t say it,”Edmure warned his uncle. “Just don’t.”

The Blackfish barely raised an eyebrow. “What do you think I’m going to say?”

Edmure groaned as another wave of nausea hit him. It soon passed, thank the gods. He buried himself under layers and layers of sheets and blankets.

“ _I told you so_. That’s what you’ve been dying to tell me, Uncle. I know you too well.”

“I told you so,” his uncle said, deftly deflecting the pillow Edmure threw in his direction.

“Why would they send _him_ to look for us? _Him_ , of all people,” Edmure grumbled. The Martells had been concerned about the delayed arrival of the Tully wedding party. A group of knights had been dispatched from Sunspear to look for the wedding party, and to ascertain if the Tully party had been met by any unfortunate accident on the way. They found the inn where the Tully wedding party and the Dornish honor guard led by Lord Yronwood were staying while waiting for Hoster Tully to regain his strength to continue travelling.

Lord Yronwood had seemed very put out by the arrival of the knights from Sunspear. “Surely Prince Doran could have trusted my men to escort our honored guests safely to Sunspear,” he told the knight leading the group. “Prince Quentyn is among us. He will not allow any harm to come to his future good-brother.”

“We were sent by Prince Oberyn, Lord Yronwood,” the knight replied, his face devoid of any expression.

When the knights from Sunspear were being shown to their rooms by the owner of the inn, Lord Yronwood snorted and said, “I should have guessed. Only Oberyn Martell would think it appropriate to send the man whose marriage proposal had been rejected to escort Princess Arianne’s groom into the city.”

Edmure choked on his lemon water. (“ _Dornish wine is strong_ ,” his uncle had warned him, “ _and you do not want to look a fool in front of the Dornishmen_ , _not when you are going to wed their precious princess_.” Edmure had been sticking to lemon water for most of the journey.) Arianne had never mentioned a rejected suitor from Dorne. Who _was_ that knight?

Quentyn was not very forthcoming, when he was asked. “Ser Daemon Sand,” he told Edmure. “He once squired for my uncle Oberyn, and received his knighthood from my uncle as well.”

Edmure waited for more.

“He is said to be one of the finest swords in Dorne,” Quentyn added, pouring salt into Edmure’s already substantial injury.

“And he once asked for your sister’s hand in marriage?” Edmure asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

Quentyn hesitated. “It was a long time ago.”

“Was it Prince Doran who refused, or was it your sister?”

Quentyn looked even more uncomfortable. “I … I do not know, Ser Edmure. I was not at Sunspear at the time.”

A woman in her position, with her wit and beauty. Of course Arianne would have plenty of suitors. Men must have been lining up outside her door for the chance to wed her.  

But this one had actually gone to Prince Doran. _The Bastard of Godsgrace_ , Lord Yronwood had called him. A knight, not a lord. A bastard, not a trueborn son, so he would not stand to inherit his father’s land and title. Would Daemon Sand have had the courage to go to Prince Doran to ask for Arianne’s hand in marriage, if he had not been certain that his sentiment had been reciprocated?

Was this the cause for the cloud that seemed to descend on Arianne’s face whenever her father was mentioned? Arianne had chattered easily and eagerly enough about her cousins and her uncle, but she was uncharacteristically reticent about her father.

Had Arianne _loved_ this Bastard of Godsgrace? A love thwarted by a strict father and a demanding prince, Edmure imagined.

 _My poor, sweet princess_. She must have been very unhappy, Edmure thought, his heart going out to his intended bride. _I will make her the very best of husband_ , he vowed, _and Arianne will forget all about that unhappy chapter in her life._

The other side of him, however, the one his uncle usually referred to as Edmure’s little devil, thought it most necessary to gain the upper hand on Daemon Sand as soon as possible. Hence, the wine. Ser Daemon had not looked the worse for wear at all at the end of it. He looked amused, damn the man.

“I suppose even fish can drown in Dornish wine, Ser Edmure,” he had said, as a parting shot.

“Trout, ser, not just any fish. And we do not drown,” had been Edmure’s rejoinder. Weak, indeed. Even Edmure had to admit it himself.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Edmure swore.

“You have only yourself to blame, you know,” his uncle said from the next bed.

Another thought struck him. “You won’t tell Father, will you? About tonight?”

_Please don’t._

Worryingly, there was no reply from his uncle, who was lying motionless with his eyes closed. “Uncle?” Edmure called out again.

“Your mother was once betrothed to another man,” the Blackfish said, ignoring Edmure’s previous question.

This was news to Edmure. “She was? Who was the man?”

His uncle shrugged. “I don’t remember. Some minor lord or other. He died before the wedding could take place. The point is, your father never spent a single moment worrying or wondering about that man. Hoster was the one who married Minisa, and that was that.”

 _I am not my father_ , Edmure thought sadly. Oh would that he were!

“Daemon Sand is not dead,” Edmure pointed out another crucial difference.

“Daemon Sand was never actually betrothed to Arianne Martell,” his uncle retorted.

 _Daemon Sand_. Edmure was already sick of hearing that name. He didn’t want to think about the Bastard of Godsgrace for a moment longer. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure the face of his dead mother. He failed, as usual. He had been too young when she died. All he could recall were snatches and snippets of things, most of them making no sense at all.

“Was my mother happy, on her wedding day?” He asked his uncle.

“She was, yes,” the Blackfish replied, too quickly.

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“She _looked_ happy. I couldn’t have known what she truly felt, of course. But later … I knew they were happy, your father and mother. It was a good marriage. Not perfect, of course, not the best, but believe me, I have seen my shares of the bad ones, and Hoster’s and Minisa’s was not one of the bad ones.”

“They were happy, and then she died.”

“One does not negate the other, Edmure.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

He must have imagined it, Doran decided later. He must have imagined Mellario’s sharp intake of breath when she first entered the room, when her eyes first took in the rolling chair and the Myrish blanket covering his legs.

“How very like you,” she said only moments later, her voice steady, her gaze resolute, “never to have mentioned this in your letters.”

“Letters can be intercepted,” Doran replied simply.

“And the Prince of Dorne has many enemies all too eager to exploit any sign of weakness on his part, no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

There did not seem to be anything else to say, after that. Or else, there was much to say, but neither of them could find a way to say it.

“Mellario –“ Doran began, tentatively.

She interrupted, abruptly. “Is this another debt the Prince of Dorne has to pay, using another child as coin?”

A blood debt owed the Yronwoods, and Quentyn the only coin they would accept, he had told her, back then.

 _What sort of a father uses his own flesh and blood to pay his debts?_ Mellario had raged.

 _The princely sort_ , had been his brusque rejoinder. He could have said more,  _should_  have said more. A father who wanted to prevent bloodshed, who wanted to spare other children the loss of their own fathers in war.

“There is no debt to be paid to the Tullys. Merely –“

“-merely a useful alliance. Yes, I know how these things are arranged. Norvos is not such a backwater to not understand marriage alliance and its advantages.” She paused. “Your mother would have been pleased. An advantageous marriage for the future Princess of Dorne. Pity you had not thought to do the same when it was your turn to wed, back then. It would have saved you a lot of grief and heartache.” Her voice lowering, barely audible, she continued, “It would have saved  _me_  a lot of grief and heartache.”

She was so beautiful still, even with the grey in her hair, even with the bitter watchfulness in her eyes that never used to be there, when he saw her for the first time. Her eyes had been laughing, then.

“I have never regretted marrying you,” Doran said.

“Then you are a bigger fool than I thought possible,” Mellario replied.

He winced, from the pain inflicted by her words, but she must have thought it was his legs giving him trouble, for her expression softened as she asked, “Should I call Maester Caleotte?”

He shook his head. “I would like to be awake and in full use of my faculty when my future good-son arrives.”

“Can the maester give you nothing for the pain other than milk of the poppy?”

  _Your touch would do much to alleviate the pain_ , he imagined telling her. That look in her eyes, he remembered it now. She had the same look when he told her about his brothers Mors and Olyvar, dead in their cradles. Had that been before, or after their betrothal?

No! He would not stoop so low to take advantage of her soft heart. He turned his face sideway to avoid her gaze. That seemed to irritate her. Sighing heavily, she said, “You have not changed at all. Still so secretive, so stoic, so intent on keeping everything to yourself, keeping everything hidden from me, even your pain.”

 _“_ My pain _?”_  He could not understand her complaint. Doran’s gout had been troubling him very little when Mellario left Dorne.

“Oh I don’t mean your legs!” Mellario said impatiently. “When your sister and her children died, you locked yourself in your solar for hours on end, day after day.”

Day after day spent writing endless letters, making careful plans, curtailing Oberyn’s recklessness.

Day after day spent on regrets and recriminations – what could he have done differently, so Elia and her babes would not have been so brutally slaughtered?  

He had wept too, behind that closed door.

Mellario continued, “You told me nothing. You allow me not a glimpse of your pain, your grief. How could I be of any comfort to you, of any help, if I know nothing at all? And then suddenly, you wanted to send Arianne to Tyrosh to be a cupbearer to some Archon you have never mentioned before. When I asked you the reason, you refused to tell me anything. You would steal away another of my child without even the courtesy of telling me why.”

“I did not send Arianne to Tyrosh after all,” Doran reminded her. Mellario had threatened to harm herself; Doran could see the flash of the blade still. In the end, he could not bear to do that to the mother of his children, to the woman he still loved, despite all their quarrels, despite all the arguments.

“What scheme was that for? What plans were you and Oberyn hatching?” Mellario was still insistent.

He closed his eyes. It’s safer for Mellario if she knew nothing. Treason. Doran had no illusion; he and Oberyn had been planning treason to obtain justice for Elia’s death. Not that it was not treason for Robert Baratheon to usurp the throne. But safely entrenched on the throne now, Robert Baratheon would not see it that way at all, would not hesitate to take their heads if he knew what had been planned.

What  _had_  been planned. Useless now, with Viserys dead. His sister the only Targaryen left. A young girl. A child, almost. But a Targaryen nonetheless …

Mellario had taken hold of Doran’s hand. “Promise me this, at least. Promise me you will not use our children in any dangerous scheme.”

“I love my children. I would never do anything to harm them.” He had been aiming for indignation, but his voice sounded only broken and weary beyond bearing. He laid his left hand atop her own. “Surely … surely you know that, Mellario?”

Mellario wrenched her hand away. “I know that you are a prince, not just a father.”

\----------------------------------

The pain was constant, like crabs pinching and pinching in his stomach. He had refused milk of the poppy; it would not do for Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun to arrive in Sunspear insensible. Edmure alternated between glancing at his father with brows furrowed, and exchanging worried looks with his uncle.

“I am not dead yet,” Hoster finally growled.

Edmure flushed, and suddenly he looked almost like a boy again; that keen, eager boy who seemed to need so much more from his father than Hoster knew how to give. His beard had grown fierce in the last year, as if Edmure believed he could willed himself into a man, from the outside in.

Cat was waiting with the Martell welcoming party, greeting them at the gate into Sunspear. Her husband was by her side, but Hoster had eyes only for his daughter. She smiled, when she first caught sight of her father, but the smile soon turned into a concerned look as she took in the sheen of sweat on his brow, the paleness of his countenance.

“Welcome to Sunspear, Lord Tully.” It was Oberyn Martell who headed the welcoming party. Hoster had spent many hours in negotiation with Oberyn at Riverrun, finalizing the marriage contract. The Red Viper had seemed almost … mild, truth be told, not living up to his notorious reputation. Then again, Hoster suspected Doran Martell wished for the marriage to come into fruition just as much as he did. Why Doran Martell had suddenly changed his mind and decided that the Martell-Tully marriage alliance was desirable after all was still a mystery. And Hoster Tully did not like mysteries, or surprises.

It cannot be denied, however, that it was a spectacular match for his son. With Cat married to Lord of Winterfell, Lysa married to Lord of the Eyrie, and Edmure married to the future ruling Princess of Dorne, Riverrun would be allied in marriage with the north, east, and south regions of the realm, ensuring greater security for the Riverlands and its people.

“Princess Arianne is not here?” Edmure’s voice broke through the polite ritual of welcome, startling in its naked eagerness and impatience. Hoster narrowed his eyes, displeased. The Blackfish quickly whispered something into his nephews’ ears. But Oberyn Martell seemed to have taken the remark in good spirit, laughing, and then saying, “I am glad that Ser Edmure is so very taken with my niece.  It is a good harbinger for the marriage.”

“Princess Arianne and Prince Doran are waiting in the throne room,” spoke the woman who had been introduced as Oberyn’s paramour, smiling.

Paramour. With four daughters, at that. Why did he not wed her? Hoster wondered. Dorne was different, with its own customs and laws. He knew that, of course. But still …

The mention of the throne room vaguely discomfited Hoster Tully. Why have the Prince of Dorne elected to receive them in the throne room, and not in the great hall? To signify to Edmure from the very beginning that while the woman he was about to wed will one day sit on a throne, Edmure himself would not? A consort, he would be called. While Arianne Martell would be the Lady of Riverrun when Edmure became Lord of Riverrun, Edmure would be a mere consort when Arianne ascended the Dornish throne to become Princess of Dorne. Hoster glanced at his son, deep in conversation with one of Oberyn Martell’s many daughters, this one a shy, gentle creature whose innocence seemed almost otherworldy, not to mention very un-Oberyn-like.

_Do you know what awaits you, my son?_


End file.
